


The Key

by days4daisy



Category: Agent Carter (TV)
Genre: Blood, Gang Rape, Guilt, Gun Violence, Kidnapping, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Sexism, Possibly Unrequited Love, Post-Series, Rape during recovery: they are too hurt/weak to fight off, Rape/Non-con Elements, Season/Series 02, Sexual Repression, Victim is strapped/in chains/tied-up, disability slur
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-16
Updated: 2017-07-16
Packaged: 2018-11-20 19:35:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11341902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/days4daisy/pseuds/days4daisy
Summary: Give him a taste of his own medicine.





	The Key

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Babie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Babie/gifts).



> I loved all of your Agent Carter prompts, Babie! I hope you enjoy this :)

Jack just wanted to get the hell out of LA. He had his bag packed and everything, but you know what they say about the best laid plans...

It was a professional job, complete with silencer. Jack never saw a face. Grip and a gun, that's it. Jack took the shot point-blank. He should be dead. But he’s not, unless Hell is some scummy basement with boarded up windows.

Jack can’t get up because - damn it - he’s shackled at both wrists. The wall is cold and clammy on his back. How long has he been here?

Jack tries to move but regrets it immediately. Pain explodes through his chest, a yelp strangling out. He has bandages tangled around his chest and shoulder. Did the shooter miss?

No way, no one with a silencer takes a bad shot so close. Someone meant for him to live. That means he’s got something they want.

The file on Carter? That can't be it, the file was at the top of his suitcase. Whoever shot him probably plucked it right out. No, whoever stashed him here is looking for something else. Something that wasn’t where they thought it would be. Something they need him to answer for.

There are stairs somewhere nearby. Old, wooden steps. Jack can’t see them, but he hears every creak of the planks. Multiple sets of feet. Wood gives way to the concrete. He counts four men.

A single bulb is on above his head. It sheds a crusty spotlight, enough to confirm that his ears were right. Four men in black clothes and black knit masks. No other identifying marks.

Jack is strung up too tight to try to pick his locks. His legs are free, but the angle of his arms won't let him get his feet under him. With his injury, he’s not mobile enough to pick a fight anyway.

The initial stab of pain has given way to throbbing around his right shoulder. Debilitating, but Jack should live, and living is better than he thought he was doing five minutes ago.

“Jack Thompson,” the one in the middle says. He has a low, even voice. Jack doesn’t recognize it.

“Your accommodations could use a little work.” Jack's voice does not sound promising. His throat is on fire, tongue dry and sour. He coughs, a pair of dry hacks that shoot fresh pain through his chest. There are needle marks in his arms, dull purple splotches. Must have had him on IVs. “What do you want?” Jack mutters.

“You should know that ”

“I really don’t.”

“You took something that doesn’t belong to you,” he's told.

Jack swallows, tries to force more saliva on his tongue. “Something tells me you already got the file.” The silence he gets is all the confirmation he needs. “Great. I took something, you took it from me. Shot me too. I’d say we’re square.”

“Where’s the key, Jack?”

There’s been too much, between that rift in the sky, Howard Stark, the Gamma Ray, Whitney Frost. It takes a second for Jack to remember the pin he took from Vernon Masters’ briefcase. The pin now in Carter’s possession.

He arches a brow. “What key’s that?”

“It belonged to Vernon Masters before you betrayed him.”

Jack hums like he's mulling it over. “Yeah see, he had the file on him. I took that, as you know. Nothing else looked all that important.”

“We know you took it, Jack. We saw you.”

Ice goes down his back. These bastards have eyes in the LA office. Means the whole team's in danger, especially Carter. And Sousa.

“Oh right, _that_ key." Jack shrugs, trying to mask his alarm. "Chucked it down a sewer. Best way I could think to send that son of a bitch off.”

The assailant on Jack's left, silent until now, marches forward and puts a boot in his ribs. Jack's breath wheezes out. The shackles cut into his wrists.

“What did you do with it, Jack?” the lead asks again.

“Swallowed it," Jack mutters, short of breath. "Might come back out if you’re lucky.”

This time, it isn’t one set of boots kicking him. It’s three. Rubber-toed work shoes assault his ribs and chest. Jack pulls his knees up for protection, but he can't stop one measured shot from catching him in the face. He tastes blood in his mouth. His shoulder throbs like a beating heart.

Jack sags in his bonds when they finally let him be. He gulps desperately for air.

“We’ll give you time to think,” the lead says. He grabs the string beneath the single light bulb. The room is extinguished into darkness.

***

Jack has no idea how long he’s downstairs in the dark. It’s enough time for his boot-battered body to settle into a general ache. His back is killing him. His shoulder too, a numbness in his right hand that can’t be good. The room rests in a permanent tilt. Could be the shot Jack took to the face or how long he's gone without water. It’s freezing cold. His teeth clench, stomach sick from lack of food.

Has he been missing long enough for the team to realize he didn’t make his flight? Did the hotel find blood on the floor, or did his mystery kidnappers scrub the place?

Might be the chill, or maybe it’s dehydration, but Jack hasn’t come up with a single escape plan. All he knows is he’s not talking. If this is what they’ll do to him, what would they do to Carter? To Sousa? If they have eyes in the LA branch, Danny Boy is already screwed. Jack has to buy him some time.

After falling in with Vernon, maybe Jack deserved the short straw on the danger front this time. Or...maybe he's just cold and sore as hell.

Dread gnaws at Jack's insides when he hears boots on the steps. He doesn’t have a plan. He doesn’t know if anyone is coming for him, and he doesn’t see any way to signal for help. The most he can hope for is that the pain blacks him out before he gives up anything important.

Jack doesn’t remember the light being this painful earlier. The bulb flares, and Jack squints at the four men standing above him.They’re still in all black, still in the same masks.

“What’s in it for me?” Jack asks them.

There’s satisfaction in the pause his question gets. The lead cocks his head. “You’re not exactly in a bargaining position, Jack."

Jack shrugs his good shoulder. “I don’t talk, you kill me. I talk, you kill me anyway. Not much incentive to cooperate, fellas.” He wishes he sounded as cool as his words. His voice cracks like he’s been gargling glass.

It’s unsettling how fuzzy the figures are to his eyes  He wonders if they stitched up the bullet wound. Is he still bleeding? Is that why he's so cold?

The lead smiles, a half-tilt full of secrets. “There are other factors you’ve failed to take into consideration.”

Jack’s mind scrambles, but it’s like trying to grab water. He’s too cold. Too light-headed. “What factors?”

“The pain we’ll spare you if you talk.” The words are a gentle invitation. “If you speak now, we’ll let you die with dignity.”

“Dead’s dead,” Jack mutters. “If you want me talking, you better offer more than that.”

The lead kneels in front of Jack, like he’s about to speak to a child. “Killing you is too easy, Jack,” he says. "There's so much more we can do."

Jack knows what this means. Fuzzy as his mind is, the memories come back sharp as a knife. The war hero, a coward. A medal pinned to his uniform when he had no right to it.

He's been bracing for the day when it would come out. The deeper the SSR got, the more powerful their enemies became. Someone had to know. Someone would come along and discredit Jack's entire war career.

Jack grimaces, but he’s ready for it. “Do it," he says. "I’m not talking.”

His answer coaxes a wider smile. “Are you sure?”

The lead reaches behind his back and produces a pair of photos. Black and white, held to face level so Jack can see.

It isn’t the war. Not the line anyway. It’s camp. It’s the dead of night.

It’s Randall Swinden from Michigan. Ypsilanti, he said. Jack never knew much more about him than that. There was booze, a fire, and Randall. Randall was...like him. Up for a late night screw, at least. Far from home and whatever wife and kids he’d left behind.

Randall was older. He had a thick brown beard that scratched Jack’s face in the dark. Jack doesn't go for beards usually, but Randall's worked. Jack let him push him on a wall. Yank his pants down and work him in a grubby hand. Could have used more slick, but Jack didn't complain. He needed to feel good that night. Randall offered that.

The photos are of Jack with Randall Swinden. Jack's pants are to his knees. There was no one around though, _no one_ , Jack made sure of that. Never would have risked it if they hadn’t been alone. He knows better than to risk it. Knows what it means to be the way he is.

Jack doesn't have much color left in his face to bleed out. Dead or alive, it’ll be over for him if these get out. Everything he’s built for himself. Everything he’s become. Not just his career. His life. Done.

"I don’t know where your goddamn key is.” The words come out as a whisper. 

The lead retreats to the boundary of darkness. They’re like ghosts out of the light, looming over Jack. Jack tries to stay calm, tries to keep his mouth from shaking. He musters a glare at his soon-to-be killers.

At least Carter will know he was all right in the end. Sousa might too, if he can get past knowing his ol' pal Jack was a queer. That has to be good enough.

“Give him a taste of his own medicine.” Jack has no idea what this means.

He becomes aware of something turning. A strange, laborious snap of rusted metal. It doesn’t make sense until the tension in his arms increases. He realizes, panicked, that his wrists are being pulled above his head, and the rest of his body with it. The twinge in his bullet-pocked shoulder become an agonizing tear. The cranking doesn’t stop. His wrists pull above his head. Jack's legs, long-since asleep, stab with sudden feeling. The pain in his shoulder is too great to register. It throbs through him, overpowering. The room fades in and out. He moans weakly.

Jack doesn't notice the hands that grab him at first. They’re secondary to his splitting bullet wound. The room smears in Jack’s eyes, grays and yellows with spots of unconscious black.

He’s forced to by a sudden deluge. Water thrown on him, paralyzingly cold. Jack sputters, coughs. Hands twist him face-first against the wall. His body screams from the redirection, an icy puddle at his feet. “The hell are you doing?” Jack demands hoarsely. Pain constricts Jack's lungs; he gasps for air. He’s going to pass out. Everything is happening too fast.

But Jack is all-too-aware when his belt is abruptly torn off. Hands undo his soaked trousers quickly. They’re yanked off with his underwear, shoes and socks kicked off his feet. The ground is cold and wet under his toes. Jack thrashes in his chains. His wet hair mats to his face, and his teeth chatter.  _Give him a taste of his own medicine._ It’s the first time Jack actually feels afraid.

“Don’t do this.” He doesn't sound like himself. Too small, too desperate.

The leader’s voice is soft at his ear. “Too late for that, Jack.”

Hands grab his thighs like cuts of meat. Jack squeezes his eyes shut, tries not to hear zippers being undone behind him. He concentrates on the pain throbbing through his shoulder. He wants to recapture that numbness, black spots swimming in front of his eyes. He’ll take unconsciousness over this. He doesn’t want to be awake, he doesn't want to know.

But for all the guff Carter and Sousa give him? Truth is, Jack Thompson has a depressingly high tolerance for pain.

Something blunt-hard pushes up on him. It grinds against his hole, a promise of what he’s about to feel. It’s not small, that’s for sure. Not the biggest cock Jack’s ever taken, but it would hurt even with some preparation. And he doesn’t have a hint of oil in him, not a single finger. Jack knows not to beg; it’ll make things worse. He steels himself, gulps down air. He’s got to be calm. If he’s not calm, if he doesn’t relax…

It tears him open in a single thrust, unwilling to go slow. Jack's air sputters out, and he convulses in his chains. He tries to shrink away, but only winds up with hips ground against his ass. The shaft buried inside him is dry and hard. It thrusts in, short and painful. Hot, sudden pain carves between Jack's legs. He makes a sharp sound, shuddering violently.

Calloused hands grip his sides like they own him. “You want to cry for me, sweetheart?” It’s a new voice at his ear, husky with an accent Jack can’t identify. He wracks his brain, the detective in him fighting the haze of his pain. Eastern Europe, no doubt. But what country, _what country_? The man’s mask scratches his skin. “How about that bruiser in the barracks? He make an honest wife out of you?”

The cock rams into him again, again. His assailant makes a show of it. Some anonymous hack Jack could take on any other day. If only he wasn’t in these chains, if only he didn’t have a hole through his shoulder. Jack struggles to close his knees, to maintain any kind of dignity. But he has no leverage, legs stumbling under his weight. Jack's hair is fisted abruptly, and his head is smashed against the wall. He yelps, sees stars, and sags on the dick shoving into him. He’s stretched too far. Jack's stomach churns.

“That's my sweet girl,” his no-name purrs. Jack reels, it’s too much. His body is strung tight like a violin bow. His arms and legs are shaking. Too much sensation. Too much pain to wrap his brain around. Jack’s vision hazes at the edges. His lower body throbs like an open vein. He can’t feel his arms or legs.

It takes too long for the man to orgasm. Jack rides it out, gritting his teeth at every thrust. His feet are barely under him. Pain explodes through his back at every snap of hips. Finally, he's filled up, hot and wet between his legs. Jack buries his face against the inside of his arm, sourness flooding his mouth. Cum drips down his thighs. He tries not to think about it, tries to concentrate only on the pain in his back and arms. A bullet wound, he can accept. Being kidnapped, starved, kicked in the face, Jack can take all those things.

But the release dribbling down his legs... Jack chokes down a sob. He’s shaking too hard, he can’t stop.

The reprieve is short-lived. Jack only manages, “No," when a fresh set of hands shove his asscheeks apart. Jack's knees nearly buckle from the pain. A new cock forces against his already-wrecked asshole. Cum and blood mingle around his torn opening. Jack’s head spins, he prays for unconsciousness. But it doesn’t come, just another invasion. This guy is bigger than the first. Hotter, harder.

A hand grabs Jack's face and forces his head back. Jack hisses. He meets eyes dark as marbles glaring at him behind his mask. Jack is forced to keep his head turned as this new cock takes ownership of him. It digs him out, makes his knees sag and his hips scream. His stomach scrapes the wall hard enough to draw blood. There’s too much size in him.

Jack can’t help the mess that trickles out of his lips. “Stop,” he wheezes, “ _stop_ , I’ll - ” he can say where the key is, or where he last saw it. He doesn’t have to say Carter. He can tell them all about Whitney Frost. He can tell them about what Vernon was doing. What Whitney managed to open. The black matter. Howard Stark. As long as Jack doesn’t give up Carter and Sousa. He needs to keep them out of it, keep them safe, give them a chance to figure out what the hell the key is.

Jack cries out when his head is forced into the wall. His temple splits, and blood cries hot and thick down his face. The chains tear open scars into his wrists. "You bleed so nice" his new assailant purrs. American. Definitely American. Brown eyes. Skin tinted by the eye holes. More of an olive tone. Jack thinks about using  this later, sees himself trying to piece the puzzle together for Sousa once the SSR busts him out of here. 

The shaft inside him rams forward, and Jack's optimism breaks in a hiss. "That's it," he's encouraged. "You love this, don't you?"

What they don’t know is, Jack never wants this, even when he’s drawn to it like a goddamn moth. Jack hates what he is. He covers it with the best suits he can buy. With fancy tastes and pursuits of fancier women. When he can’t have either, he drinks hard enough to forget. Can’t be something he despises if he doesn’t know who he is. A part of him wishes it always felt like this. Body torn apart like a knife carved through his center. Pain burning on every nerve. This is what it’s supposed to feel like.

Fresh cum spurts into Jack, burning walls over-stretched without permission. Tears leave wet salt marks on his face. He gags down the bile threatening up his throat.

There is no break this time. One body leaves, and the next steps right up. The new hands are cold and bony. A cock grinds between Jack's ass, cum dribbles uselessly from inside. Jack’s face is a smear of blood. He feels lethargic, numb to his legs forced apart again. Nails drag down his sides, leaving splotches of pink. Nothing feels real. Exhales on his back leave damp spots like summer.

Jack buries his face in his arms and closes his eyes. He only manages a stuttered gasp when he’s filled for the third time. A pleased hum echoes through his ears. His hair cakes to one side of his face, sticky with water and blood. This one is eager, fills him deep on the first thrust. Not as big as the last, but big enough. Jack puts up little resistance as he forces his way inside. The throb between his legs builds. His heart is pounding. Fresh bile rises, leaves him wiping spit against his arm.

A new hand scrubs his head. The lead’s masked face appears. Jack's hair is given a patient stroke as skin smacks against his backside. “Where should we address those photos, Chief Thompson?" he's asked. "Maybe to Chief Sousa at the LA branch?”

Jack tenses. “Don’t,” he rasps. He thinks of Sousa seeing those photos. He thinks of the momentary shock. The frown of disapproval. Then, the smirk. The shake of his head. The sighed ‘Thought so.’

Jack's knees start to give way. Pain jumps through his upper body. He moans, his head sags. Jack is drifting. He’s going black.

***

Jack comes to, confused. He wakes up with a cry, body stretched out. Jack is flat on the floor, held down by three sets of arms. He can’t move.

The one on his right pulls his injured arm. Jack screams, twists. But he can’t disappear. The hands pry him open for the shaft that shoves him into the ground.

***

“We should get a drink.” Jack smiles, and he hopes it's convincing. Jack Thompson wouldn't care that Danny’s getting hitched. He leans on a file cabinet, casual as ever. “Gotta celebrate, right?”

Sousa gives him one of those pity smiles. "Not tonight,” he says. He’s wearing some godawful floral shirt that a man shouldn't wear until he's near croaking age. He’s fucking gorgeous regardless, and that makes the whole thing worse. Jack registers the thought with a grimace. He thought he'd be done with this once Sousa transferred out to California. Never that easy, is it?

Sousa’s smile becomes confusion. Jack brushes him off with a shrug, because that’s what Jack Thompson would do. “Sure,” he says. “Another time.”

But it won’t happen another time. They both know that.

***

“You said his name,” the leader says. He grinds Jack’s face against the wall. Speaks low against his ear. “You said it more than once.”

Jack gulps desperately for air. He wants to curl in on himself, wants to cocoon and never come out. He wants to tell this asshole to go fuck himself. He wants to tell him he'll never get the key. He's _Jack Thompson_. Jack Thompson doesn't break.

A finger shoves his ass. Jabbed right in like a medical exam. It circles, cutting scabs open. Jack moans miserably against his arm.

***

Footsteps creak down the staircase, and the tears come. Jack would try to pull his legs up against himself, but he can’t even manage this much. His body is too worn down. He’s lost too much blood. Jack shivers, gasping through parted lips.

“The key, Jack?” the leader asks.

Jack makes a short sound of dismay when fingers graze his leg. They start at the crook of his knee and draw up his thigh. He spasms in his chains, asking for mercy without words. It doesn't matter. The hand still finds its way between his legs. Jack's asshole is crusted with cum from too many orgasms to remember. They all blend together in a haze of violation.

“Stark studios,” he mumbles. “Rift...Frost...”

The hand redirects abruptly and wraps around his flaccid cock. Calloused and rough, it yanks him forward. Jack screams, and keeps screaming. He convulses violently in his chains. Metal echoes through the basement. His entire body is a severed nerve.

“Oh, Jack,” the leader sighs, and his fist clenches. The sound Jack makes is inhuman, raw, _done_. He passes out.

***

"Try it, you...son of a bitch." Jack is shaking. He hasn't eaten, he's cold, he's lying in a mess of his own blood. Jack is dripping wet, they hosed away the mess of what little bodily waste he's been able to produce. But the smell lingers; urine and vomit, and the musk of unwanted sex.

He can barely breathe. The lead's weight is crushing his chest, kneeled over him. His cock is out and hard, bobbing above Jack's mouth. Jack's world has become a kaleidoscope of agony. Fragments of pain spin him dizzy. But he won't do this. Not if he has a choice. He won't.

"I think," the lead murmurs, "we're overdue on paying Chief Sousa a visit. Something tells me he'll be a bit more forthcoming with the information we need."

Jack laughs, a hysterical sound trilling like broken sobs. He's in shock. His mind is going. The small self-aware part of him knows this, but he can't stop. He laughs until tears burn in his eyes. He laughs, even when he feels the barrel of a pistol between his eyes.

Danny's the strongest guy Jack knows. More forthcoming? These bastards have held Jack for this long, but they still don't get a goddamn thing!

Jack laughs until the butt of the gun cracks against his skull. It comes down again, again. Fresh blood, dizziness, and pain. What's one more stain on a ground already covered with them?

Jack is barely conscious when his mouth is pried open. But he's conscious enough to know the dick that shoves past his lips tastes like sweat.

***

"Tell me something, sweetheart. How would you get fucked by your gimp, huh? You want his leg on or what?"

Jack can't tell his assailant a thing. His hair is snared in a fist, mouth circled wide around a cock. He can barely keep his eyes open. Jack sways on his knees, held upright only by his chained wrists. His eyelids droop, and he suckles weakly on the shaft. It jams further into him. Air wheezes out of Jack. He coughs, tired tears slipping down his face. The salt collects a bit of dried blood, turning pink by the time the drops jump from his jawline. He just wants it to be over.

If he could speak, he'd say that he would rather Danny's prosthetic be off. Logically, it seems like it would help them fit together easier. But personally, it would mean a whole hell of a lot more. Jack always liked Sousa, even while he razzed the guy for being slow, or stupid enough to think everyone came back from the war needing a hug.

If Danny's leg was off, it would mean he trusted Jack to see what the war left behind. Won't happen, not ever. To be fair, Jack's never shown Danny what the war did to him either. A few drinks shared in New York, that's it. _Men don't talk about the war. Talk is what women do._

His scalp throbs when his head is pulled higher. Jack chokes frantically around the cock thrusting down his throat. His struggle must be enough. His assailant juts into him, spurts of release thick on Jack's tongue. He swallows instinctively and shudders. His stomach flips, empty of everything except cum and blood. The cock pulls out of him with a wet pop. Jack drools down his chin, sputtering moist coughs. His chin hits his chest. He just wants to pass out. He wants to go dark and never wake back up.

Vaguely, he hears the creak of shifting metal. His arms pull above his head. Jack can't get his feet under him. His toes drag on the floor uselessly. He thinks his shoulder is tearing again. Jack doesn't know anymore. Everything is pain now, nothing worse than anything else.

"You gave the key to Chief Sousa," the lead murmurs. "Didn't you, Jack?" Jack didn't give it to Sousa. He gave it to Carter. Sousa doesn't know she has it unless she told him. 

Sousa's in love with Carter though. Hell, they're all in love with Carter. Sousa would never forgive him. Jack knows exactly what Danny would want him to say.

"I gave it to Sousa," Jack parrots, weak as an old man on his last gasps.

He can't even muster a whimper when he's twisted to face the wall. Pain slices between his legs when his thighs are pried open. "No, you didn't," the lead says. Jack closes his eyes when the cock pushes into him. He doesn't care anymore. 

***

Daniel doesn’t know what he’s stumbled on, but it’s something.

Three masked perpetrators are being taken into custody. They have something to do with whatever Vernon Masters was a part of before he bit the dust. There’s still too much to unravel. Too many puzzle pieces in the mix. There was supposed to be a fourth man, from what Daniel understands. A leader, not among the three whose unmasked faces wear smirks.

Officers comb the upper levels of the abandoned home for clues. Daniel takes the basement. It’s moldy down here, cold and windows boarded up. He tucks his crutch under an arm, braces himself on the railing to get down.

His ears lock on the sound of someone breathing. It’s ragged, gravel. Daniel hoists his pistol on instinct, but he hopes. They’ve been searching for him for weeks. The more days passed, the more hopeless the search became. They found so much goddamn blood on the floor of that hotel. No way he should have made it.

But - son of a bitch, here he is. Jack Thompson. Daniel starts to call up for the others in relief. They found him, finally!

Daniel stops when he actually sees. Chains hold Jack’s arms above his head. He’s slumped on the ground, naked save for stained bandages around his chest and shoulder. Blood crusts his hair, his face, his stomach, his legs, the floor. There's blood everywhere. “Jesus,” Daniel breathes.

He stows his weapon and kneels a safe distance away. He tries not to look at Jack's body, but he can't help himself. Jack's stomach is all ribs. He’s the color of a bedsheet, breaths more liquid than dry. “Hey, Jack,” Daniel murmurs carefully. “It’s Sousa. You hear me?” He can't bring himself to touch.

Jack blinks. Lifting his head seems to take immense effort. “Hey, Danny,” he rasps. Distant, voice shaking.

“You’re ok now, buddy,” Daniel tells him. “I'm getting you help. Stay with me, all right?”

Jack blinks again. “Yeah, ok.” He smiles a bit - he’s in shock, Daniel notes - eyes swimming in a daze. Might be a concussion. Might be dehydration, loss of blood. Might be everything. Daniel lingers on the blood-soaked bandages. Was he shot? Is that what left all that blood in his hotel room?

“The key,” Jack mumbles. “They want it.” Daniel doesn’t know what this means. May not mean anything, condition that Jack is in. He'll run it by Peggy later.

For now, Daniel shrugs out of his suit jacket and tosses it over Jack’s lower half. It won’t matter in a minute when the team is helping Jack out of here, but it matters to Daniel. He doesn't want to know why there's so much blood. Can't even make himself think it. This type of thing doesn't happen to any of them, but especially Jack Thompson. Jack’s the be-all-end-all of assholes. Never weak, impossible to trust, stubborn as a goddamn rock.

Jack grimaces when the jacket covers him. “Sorry,” he says.

“Hey, you're banged up,” Daniel tries to reassure him, "It's all right." The bastards who did this aren't getting away with it. Not if he and Peggy have anything to say about it. “Need some help down here!” Daniel calls up the steps.

As he waits, he circles, crutch clicking across concrete. He has to be on his feet. Jack's eyes are on him, but Daniel doesn't know what to do. He needs to move.

That’s when he notices the pair of photographs face up on a table. A pair of black and white shots. Daniel frowns and scoops them up.

It’s Thompson and someone Daniel doesn’t know. Wartime. Something no camera should see. Daniel’s mouth ovals in surprise. His startled stare shifts between the photos and Jack on the ground. Jack isn’t looking at him. His face is down, mouth pulled back in a cringe.

Footsteps start down the steps, creaking as they approach. Daniel folds the photos quickly and stuffs them into a pants pocket.

“My god,” one says, gawking at Jack on the floor.

“Get him loose,” Daniel barks at them. " _Now_." His anger comes on without warning.

The pair of officers rush back upstairs, looking for the lock cutters. "We need a medic!" is muffled through the ceiling.

Alone again, Daniel limps to Jack's side. He looks at him with a tight-pursed mouth. What the hell can he even say? “You’re good now, Jack,” Daniel tries, tone as strong as he can muster. "We're getting you out of here. Everything's going to be ok."

Jack closes his eyes. "Sure thing, Danny," he whispers.

He isn't buying it. Hell, Daniel isn't either. He squeezes the folded photos in his pocket, anger shaking through his fist.

At least he got these before anyone else could. It's the only thing Daniel can do. He's got Jack's secret safe and sound, and nothing in the world could make him let it go.

*The End*


End file.
